As riveting as any of Alan Chin's
books to date. Loved the character mix as well, and the
different variations of "family" relationships. I was most
intrigued by the way the author connected all the
different stories by weaving the same characters
throughout. Mr. Chin is at the top of his form
--Edward Harris, Author of The English Veil

Blurb: There
are many reason why Western men turn to Eastern
religion—searching for inner truth, lost love,
loneliness, fleeing the law, hopelessness,
alcoholism. Some travel halfway around the world
in an attempt to overcome their particular
dissoluteness, only to realize that improving
yourself is like polishing air. What they
eventually discover, nevertheless, is one of the
Buddha’s most significant lessons: enlightenment
comes to those whose singular focus is on helping
others less fortunate.

Six stories, six troubled gay men trudging down
the road to enlightenment. What they each find is
that last thing in the world they expected.

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Excerpt

I sat at the bar sporting saffron robes
and a shaved head, sipping a Singha beer and listening
to the bartender, who was clearly agitated. I couldn’t
tell whether the man was upset over the recent
murders, or because the hard rain was hurting his
business, or if he simply didn’t like serving alcohol
to a monk, even a Caucasian one.

“His name Somchai,” the bartender said.
He spoke English, but with the usual Thai singsong
clip that I had come to adore. “He kill American
expatriate named Warren. Tony Warren.”

I had seen a dead body only once, a
gruesome spectacle. It took an effort to settle my
nerves as the bartender glared at me, as if, also
being an American, made me an accomplice. I had never
learned the invaluable art of staying detached in the
face of tragedy, of not identifying with the victim. I
had no way to shield myself from the reality of how
brutal humans can be to each other, what ruthless
lengths they will go, and the pain they are capable of
inflicting on each other.

Across the street, four soldiers trudged
along in the rain.

“When did Somchai kill Warren?” I asked,
my voice scarcely a whisper.

The bartender didn’t know exactly,
sometime at the beginning of the afternoon that had
now come to an end. At the same time that he killed
Warren, Somchai had also slain Warren’s Thai
girlfriend. Both victims had been found two hours
earlier at the apartment belonging to Warren.

The barroom was already dark, due to the
lateness of the hour and another power outage. Candles
flickered on the bar and at each table; their yellow
light mingled with the blueness of the dying day.

The shower stopped as suddenly as it had
started, as it often does in Thailand.

“I would like another Singha,” I said,
“but I have no more money. Can I buy on credit?”

The bartender’s look of regret turned to
disgust. As he walked away, a customer two stools over
ordered beers for me and himself, and also shots of
cheap Thai whiskey.

The bartender prepared our drinks while
the customer moved to the stool beside mine. He
introduced himself as Ty Poe, and did not shake my
hand, as it is considered disrespectful to touch a
monk. Poe was courteous, offering the customary wai gesture
of respect. He was somewhere in his forties, and had a
smoking-induced cough. The polluted streets of Chiang
Mai didn’t help his lungs any more than his
chain-smoking, I thought. I gave him my name, Reece
Jackson, and told him I was from America, San
Francisco in fact.

“I overheard your talk about the
murders.”

“Why haven’t they caught him yet?” I
asked. “Chiang Mai’s a small town.”

“They have him trapped within the walls
of the old city, but you should know how it is,” Poe
grunted. “We’re talking about an American expatriate
and his whore who got themselves killed by a homeless
gay kid. I mean, there are limited resources available
to the police department. The police force, as a rule,
is not well trained. Officers have to buy their own
uniforms, their own guns. They are poorly paid. Not
much would be happening now except that this dead girl
happens to be the daughter of an army major. The army
is doing what they can but they do not know the town
as well as Somchai.”

Poe was right, I thought. What could
anyone reasonably expect of this situation? The
unvarnished fact was that in this country, any given
police station’s cases were ranked according to
priority. And priority in Thailand had to do with
wealth and status. Those on the low end of the
spectrum were unlikely to receive much attention. And
for a homeless gay kid with no family who happened to
murder a bit of riff-raff, then it was probably the
victim’s fault. Why bother figuring out all the sordid
details?

I felt thankful that I came from a
country where every death warranted respect, every
victim merited justice, no matter how far down the
social and economic ladder that victim might fall. At
least I liked to believe that bit of hype.

The bartender placed the beers and shots
before us. I lifted my shot in a toast to Poe and
knocked my head back, taking the drink in one hot
swallow. Poe stared at me in obvious surprise.

“I’ve never seen a monk do that,” Poe
said.

“I’m not really a monk. My partner and I
paid good money to enroll in the Monk-For-A-Month
program here at Wat Phra Singh. He’s on some damned
spiritual quest that I, frankly, don’t understand. Me,
I’m just an IT geek along for the ride.”

“So you’re not alone,” Poe asked,
exhaling a stream of smoke.

“Technically, no. But it often feels like
I am.”

The bar stood only a few doors down from
Tha Phae Square, which spread before one of the four
main gates of the old city, and where two of the
town’s chief avenues collided. The square was bordered
by the city wall, built of ancient brick, and butted
against by the city moat on the north and south sides.The top of
the wall was wide enough to walk on, and just then a
flock of children scampered along the wet brick,
heedless of the danger of slipping. Among them ran
Archer, my adopted son, also sporting a shaved head
and wearing the saffron robes. The children looked
down on the tourists who gathered in the square,
clutching their umbrellas in case the rains returned.

It must be between six and seven in the
evening, I thought.

Another shower started and people in the
square ran for cover.

Archer hopped down the wall steps and
dashed across the road like a fleeing deer. He entered
the bar and huddled against me, giving Poe a cautious
glance. Archer was a handsome seven-year-old with a
round face that gave way to a large jaw and a
brilliant set of teeth. He had an impishness and good
humor in his eyes, and was strong for so young a boy.
But what I admired most about him was his gentle and
trusting disposition. Unlike most boys, he was
incapable of hurting anything. His only flaw was that
he was fathered by two gay men, which made him an
outcast back home, someone to be pitied, stared at,
whispered about, laughed at, and occasionally beaten
up by his peers.

Strokes of lightning lit the sky, coming
so close together that they seemed like a ceaseless
illumination. The thunder was continuous. The noise
burst like metal fireworks, and then would immediately
rise again; its modulations grew less and less defined
as the shower let up, until there was only the sound
of rain striking paving stones.

“This rain will last all night,” Poe
said, lighting another cigarette from the butt of his
previous one.

Moments later, the shower stopped. Poe
left his stool and pointed at the leaden sky, patched
with massive blotches of somber gray so low that it
seemed to brush the rooftops. “Don’t let that fool
you.”